The Cave
by Fiorenza-a
Summary: Napoleon leaned back against the wall of the cave. It was pleasingly cool against the aching muscles which had taken such a pounding retrieving his partner.
1. Chapter 1

Napoleon leaned back against the wall of the cave. It was pleasingly cool against the aching muscles which had taken such a pounding retrieving his partner.

The Russian was where Napoleon had left him, propped up against a bolder, legs spread-eagle in front of him, head hanging down, arms loose at his side.

The cave ran back into the hillside for as far as Napoleon could see. The entrance was fronded about with greenery. A dripping gentle waterfall kept up a constant pitter-patter into its big brother which flowed out from the cave and on into the woodland gulley outside. The cave mouth was wide, its floor littered with smooth round pebbles and the water colour yellow of the spring sunshine shone directly into it through the dripping vegetation, giving everything a vibrant green tinge. It reflected off the mop of Illya's blonde hair, the dancing dappled kaleidoscope the only perceptible sign of movement in the agent's body.

Napoleon eased himself over to the partner he'd fought so hard to free. Getting Illya here had been a near impossible feat. He had found the Russian semi-conscious in the disused cellar of an abandoned farm. Illya had been babbling incoherently in a confusion of Russian and English. Napoleon had tried to pull him to his feet but he had seemed incapable of co-ordinated movement. Napoleon had checked him for the more obvious signs of damage, but he hadn't found any broken bones, no obvious wounds, not even any obvious sign of mistreatment except for a duck egg sized lump on his forehead. The skin shiny and taught over the swelling. Unable to get the Russian to stand Napoleon had hauled him head first over his shoulder, wrapping his arm across the agent's legs and catching one of the wrists dangling down his back to secure him in place. Illya babbled on uninterrupted, making no sense in any language.

Napoleon had got him out of the cellar, across the derelict farmyard and out into the weed infested fields before he'd been spotted. Out in the open like this he hadn't stood a chance of escaping his pursuers, the heavy clay of the fields would have been hard going without the added burden of his partner's weight. Illya was heavier than he looked, more solidly muscled than he appeared. The thugs had caught up with them easily, pulling Illya from his shoulder, laying into Napoleon with gusto, strangely oblivious to Illya's presence despite the rambling nonsense he continued to spout.

Napoleon's first thought when he had seen them heading his way had been for his gun, shooting his way out of the predicament the only reasonable choice, but he had been hampered in drawing it by Illya's dead weight and they had beaten him to it. Training their weapons on both him and the incoherent Russian, they had forced Napoleon to drop his weapon on the ground and it had been trampled into the sodden mud in the ensuing fight.

There had been too many of them to beat, Napoleon hadn't been able to retrieve his own weapon nor had he been able to take one of theirs. Instead he'd taken a hell of a beating, all the while wondering why they hadn't just shot him. He'd been knocked senseless and when he came round they'd gone, his weapon was irretrievably lost and Illya was still mumbling to himself, flat on his back staring up at the sky.

Napoleon crawled over to him, peering into his glazed eyes, checking him again for signs of injury, but the rambling agent was unhurt. They had simply left him there. This was making less and less sense. Napoleon patted himself down hoping they had overlooked his communicator but, unsurprisingly, it was gone. They had stripped Illya of anything useful long before he had found him, leaving the agent without identity, weapon or means of communication. Napoleon forced himself to his feet and hauled his partner up after him, shouldering the burden of him once again.

Napoleon's best hope now was a prearranged rendezvous almost fifteen miles away. The meet was not intended for him, it was a courier drop between two other agents, but he knew its location and it was now his best hope of contacting anyone from U.N.C.L.E. As he slogged his way through the fields Illya babbled on. Napoleon listened, trying to discern anything of sense, anything that explained what had happened between Illya's rushed farewell of him in New York and the babbling idiocy of his current state here in Europe.

After a couple of hours Napoleon stopped, easing the blonde agent from his shoulders, his spine electric with protest. Illya was quieter now, far less audible. Napoleon lifted his partner's head to look into his eyes. ''Illya'' he said ''Illya, listen to me. Can you hear me?'' Illya's eyes wandered off focus, roaming the air behind Napoleon's head. ''Illya'' he said more sharply and for a second he thought he had caught the Russian's attention, but Illya couldn't hold his gaze and his head lolled sideways. Napoleon shook him roughly by the shoulders, but the blonde head just shook with the motion, no hint of volition.

They rested for another forty-five minutes then Napoleon pulled the Russian back over his shoulder and resumed plodding through the countryside towards the hope of their salvation. Illya's babble was barely above a murmur now, growing ever more soft until finally it stopped. Napoleon had found the ceaseless, meaningless noise disturbingly out of character, but the silence was worse. The empty ramblings had at least confirmed the Russian had some strength left in him, the silence gave no such assurance.

Napoleon had just reached the outskirts of the woods when he heard the whining buzz of an engine in the skies above him. Not enough altitude for an aeroplane, the sound of the engine pitched too high. He cricked his neck skyward trying to spot the source of the noise. It had all the hallmarks of one of THRUSH's little toys. He hurriedly slid Illya from his shoulder. Leaving him curled at the foot of a tree, shielded from the menace above by the newly budding growth of its broad canopy. Napoleon scanned the skies, searching for the buzzing mystery above them. The slight flicker of its shadow on the ground caught the periphery of his vision before he actually saw it. A single man, spider's web of a flying device, sporting the familiar badge of THRUSH. He ducked back into the tree cover, pulling Illya up less than gently and hefting his weight over his much abused shoulder. He made his way through the remnants of last winter's leaf litter, grateful that the mouldering detritus was ill suited for retaining a memory of his footprints.

He had seen the cave only by chance; a bird startled from its perch by the buzzing whine of the THRUSH operative above them, had darted across the woodland stream and disappeared into the green fringed depths. Napoleon followed the bird upstream and stumbled exhausted into the cool dank interior of the cave. He propped Illya up against the boulder and sank wearily to his knees.

Now he sat beside the Russian, pulling Illya's head up to look into his face. The Russian looked bone weary. His eyes blinked rapidly and without purpose, lit by the dancing sunlight filtering into the cave. Napoleon tried again ''Illya, Illya, can you hear me?'' The purposeless eyes swung in his direction, but no recognition registered in them. They barely seemed aware at all. ''Illya, c'mon it's me, stop this. Now'' said Napoleon firmly. A flicker of concentration, or it could have been confusion, passed over Illya's face and then he pitched forward into Napoleon's shoulder, no longer conscious. Napoleon held his head where it was for a heart beat or two. ''Illya'' he reproved the mop of hair beneath his chin. ''Illya.''


	2. Chapter 2

It was clear now that Illya wasn't going to make the rendezvous, even if by some miracle Napoleon got him that far, he could hardly wander through the streets of the picturesque, tourist friendly village with an unconscious man in tow. Illya in his present condition wouldn't even pass for drunk. It was obvious that the man was ill. Napoleon had no choice, if the Russian was going to get the help he so obviously needed, he would have to leave Illya here and find that help alone.

He grabbed the Russian under the arms and dragged him as far back into the cave as he could without losing the light. He didn't want Illya, already disorientated and confused, waking up in the dark alone. But neither did he want THRUSH to find him and finish whatever it was they had started with him. He folded the blonde man's arms across his chest and wished the unconscious agent luck before brushing down his dishevelled suit as best he could with his hands and heading out of the cave.

He moved quickly, compromising silence for speed. He didn't know what had happened to Illya but it was obvious that the man was deteriorating. Time was running out. There was no way to know how late would be too late and it was this thought that kept his battered body pushing through the woodland at a fair pace. The buzzing of the skeletal THRUSH gyrocopter above him remained constant. Napoleon was relieved at the company, if the thing was looking for him it wasn't tracking Illya. Illya was in no shape to deal with THRUSH. Illya was in no shape to deal with anything.

The whining buzz overhead passed him, overtaking him. Then the sound changed, then it ceased altogether. It must have landed. But where? And how did he avoid running into its doubtless armed occupant? Napoleon ploughed on, alert and wary.

A couple of hundred yards later he spotted the flying machine through the trees. It was standing in open grassland maybe twenty yards from the tree line. He couldn't see the pilot and that made him nervous. It meant that somewhere not far from here was a man he couldn't see. If that man stopped him who would help Illya? Who would be able to find the helpless Russian? Who would know where to look?

Napoleon scrutinised every sound and every shadow. Every whip of the wind, every startled animal, listening and watching for his enemy. But still the shot when it came made him jump, just missing his head and thudding harmlessly into a tree. He dropped, gauging the direction from which it had come with time sharpened instinct.

He moved round the wounded tree, peering through the trunks of its neighbours for any sign of the gunman. Another shot, unaimed, splintering sap wood. Then another. That fool either has ammunition to spare or he is taking some very silly chances, thought Napoleon. A flicker of an idea crossed his brain. He made a noisy dash for the security of another tree trunk and was rewarded by a burst of gun fire. Another dash, more gunfire. A man could get himself killed this way, thought Napoleon as he launched himself at yet another tree. More gunfire, followed by impotent clicking and some healthy swearing.

Napoleon waited, he didn't take silly chances. The swearing was followed by the sound of something small and heavy being hurled at something solid and wooden. Napoleon still waited, then he heard the man moving away from him, the sound of his swearing retreating in the direction of the waiting 'copter. Napoleon plunged after him, catching up with him just as he reached the woodland edge.

The man began running, but Napoleon wasn't having any of that. The usually suave agent was beaten, perplexed, worried and dishevelled and here was the perfect therapy for his frustrations. He flung himself through the air knocking his retreating assailant flat; winded, the man struggled to recover his footing but Napoleon punched him. Repeatedly. Eventually the man stopped struggling. It took Napoleon a couple of punches to register this. To his credit the now insensible THRUSH pilot had landed a couple of decent punches of his own and Napoleon's split lip was testament to this. Wiping the blood away with the back of his hand Napoleon headed for the little flying machine, forcing his protesting frame into the cramped cockpit and starting the engine.

Once airborne he set a course in the direction of the village. Even hunched in the pilot's seat of the little gyro, flying was a lot easier on his exhausted body than travelling by foot. His aching muscles grateful for the reprieve.

He landed in open pasture about a mile outside the village in the hope of evading any curiosity, hostile or otherwise. He heaved his frame from the eccentric aircraft and began walking. His muscles had stiffened and every step hurt.

After a while the pain subsided into a dull reproach. He reached the outskirts of the village and realised his appearance was going to prove an obstacle to maintaining his anonymity. His muddied rumpled suit, bloodied face and unkempt hair were an outlandish affront to the casual holiday attire of the tourists and the more workaday dress of the locals. At best he could only hope that he appeared sufficiently unsavoury to deter any interference. According to his wristwatch he had another four hours to wait before the drop was made and he couldn't afford to be rounded up by some well meaning busybody or overly zealous police officer.

He headed for the centre of the village, towards the river. There was a bridge spanning it and he knew the arches were wide and low. Too low to admit easy access. The footpath which followed the riverbank ended in a short flight of steps leading up onto the bridge and then a second flight led back down on the other side. Below the bridge, between the two flights of steps, was a cool quiet haven in which he could rest unseen and unsuspected.

He reached the bridge and took the steps down to the footpath. He looked about for any indication that anyone was taking an interest and upon deciding that he was unseen, ducked under the bridge. It was too low for him to straighten up, so he made his way to the centre of the arch half walking, half crouching and lay down on the damp earth. It felt so good just to stop. Laying back on the cool ground he raised his hands to his face so he could see to set the alarm on his incongruously sleek watch. He shut his eyes and fell asleep.


	3. Chapter 3

It was not a peaceful rest. The sounds of the river and the smell of the earth conjured pictures of Illya lying entombed in his cave. Of Illya waking and stumbling incoherently into the arms of his tormentors. Of Illya's breathing slowing and faltering until it stopped. Of Illya being discovered. Of Illya being shot. Napoleon started awake. He looked at his watch, his alarm was due in twenty minutes. He disarmed it and sat up, running his fingers through the thatch of his usually impeccably groomed hair.

He edged his way down to the water and pulling his once carefully laundered handkerchief from his pocket, dipped it in the river and wiped his face. Then he dipped it in again, bringing it to the back of his neck, feeling it cool against his skin. Hoping it would help clear his mind. He kept it there as he made his way out from under the bridge, blinking in the sudden sunshine. He straightened and pushed the still wet handkerchief back in his pocket. Then he climbed the steps onto the bridge and made for the site of the drop.

It was a little café in one of the side streets, busy but not overcrowded. He found a vantage point from which he could see all the comings and goings, leaning against the wall waiting for the agents to appear. He didn't know both of them, but he would recognise the agent making the drop. He would wait for the transaction to be completed and then make himself known. Just minutes from now Illya would be safer, his rescue begun, on his way home. If the Russian thought of New York as home.

Napoleon recognised the diminutive figure of the U.N.C.L.E. agent approaching through the meandering tourists. The man was middle aged, unassuming and polite. Dressed as a holiday maker, a camera slung round his neck and dark glasses pushed up into his hair. Napoleon watched as he took a table at the café, placing the camera out of sight on an empty chair beside him. He ordered a pot of coffee and did as the other tourists did, watching the world go by.

Another tourist stopped to talk to him, an elderly woman with a shopping bag full of souvenirs, the little parcels wrapped in the gaudy gift wrapping of the local shops. The agent offered her the seat opposite and she sat down without interrupting the conversation, putting her shopping bag on the same seat as the camera. They talked on as the coffee came, the agent ordered an addition cup and she accepted. They discussed the merits of the local restaurants, the awkwardness of not knowing the language, what to see and what to avoid.

The waiter returned with an additional cup and the agent filled it with coffee. They talked about where they had been before and where they intended to go next. They finished the coffee and the agent offered to carry her bag back to the hotel, but she declined, she had nothing for her grandniece yet. They took their leave of each other and the agent left some money on the table and picked up a camera from the chair. Napoleon knew it wasn't the same camera. This camera was an innocuous prop, the original camera and whatever secret it held was tucked securely away in that shopping bag.

The U.N.C.L.E. agent rejoined the stream of tourists passing the café and Napoleon stepped out to confront him. ''Napoleon?'' gasped the agent. The immediately suppressed tone of shock in his voice told Napoleon that his assumptions about his current appearance were all proven.

''I need help'' said Napoleon ''Illya's hurt and I have no communicator.''

''This way'' said the little man, heading away from the tourists and into the quieter streets. He brought Napoleon to a little shop and ducked inside. Napoleon followed. The agent nodded to the young woman behind the counter as they passed through into the living quarters.

An older woman in a white apron greeted them, she took one look at Napoleon and said ''Sit down young man. My husband will call your office - you eat.''

''I don't have time'' said Napoleon ''my partner's hurt and I have to get back to him. He's been on his own for nearly five hours now.''

''Well you're not going to do him any good in that state'' she said ''my husband will make the call and he'll take you back to your partner if that's what you want, but for now - you eat'' she shoved him into a battered and comfortable old arm chair and disappeared for a few minutes. When she came back she had a bowl of soup and a hunk of bread on a tray. She set the tray on Napoleon's lap and stood over him while he ate.

The agent returned, his appearance transformed. Gone was the carefree holiday maker and in his place stood a balding, unassuming shop keeper. His wife was glaring at him and the little man took the hint ''When you've finished'' he said, his wife settling a mite at the concession ''I'll take you back to your partner.''

''I'm finished now'' said Napoleon attempting to stand, but the agent's wife just shoved him back down again.

''My husband still has to get the car'' she said ''you have time to eat it all.'' The little agent disappeared and Napoleon finished the last of the soup and grabbed the bread as a car horn sounded outside the shop. ''I hope your friend is alright'' she called after him as he dashed from the shop.

He flung himself into the passenger seat and said ''Head north.'' The car headed out of the village, picking up speed as it found the main road. The little agent could hear Napoleon repeating ''Hold on Illya I'm coming'' over and again to himself under his breath.

''They're sending help'' said the agent ''it's already on its way, they're tracking us. He'll be alright I'm sure'' but Napoleon wasn't listening. He was straining tight-lipped at the road ahead looking for the beginnings of the woodland.

It took another ten minutes on the winding road before the trees came into view. ''There'' said Napoleon ''follow the tree line.''

The car sped on until Napoleon shouted ''Stop! Pull over, it's in there somewhere.'' The car slewed to a halt on the grassy border between the road and the trees, rumbling a few feet over the uneven ground before stopping. Napoleon was out of the car and running before the engine had died.

The little agent already had his communicator open, transmitting their position. He watched Napoleon disappear into the trees.

Napoleon made for the sound of the stream, following it against the flow, looking for its source in the cave where he had left his partner. He was exhausted, running on adrenaline and hope. Desperate to find the man he had been forced to abandon.

His relief when he saw the curtain of dripping greenery obscuring the cave entrance caught his breath. He broke through the damp foliage making for the shadows where he had left Illya. But Illya was not there. He spun round frantically, sending pebbles skittering across the floor of the cave.

''About time'' said a weary voice from the dimness. Illya had his back to the wall of the cave, his knees hitched up, his elbows resting on them. His hands dangled in front of him like a tangled marionette and his head was tilted back as if he couldn't support the weight of it unaided.

''I've been sight seeing'' said Napoleon walking over to him ''I thought if you were going to take a nap I might as well get to know the neighbourhood.''

Illya peered up at him ''You look terrible'' he said. Then the blue eyes closed and didn't reopen.

Napoleon could hear the medical team scrambling through the cave entrance ''Over here'' he called without taking his eyes from the Russian.


	4. Chapter 4

The medics crowded round Illya, crowding Napoleon out. He stood uselessly by as they checked him over, their ministering attentions something the Russian would have had little patience with conscious. His complete surrender to them now speaking eloquent volumes about the damage THRUSH had done.

Satisfied, they loaded Illya onto a stretcher and carried him out of the cave. Napoleon followed, keeping as close to Illya as the terrain allowed. They manhandled the stretcher through the woods and out into the open. Napoleon wasn't surprised to see the private light aircraft waiting on the road, or the agents deployed in protecting it. Some of the medical team and Napoleon himself boarded the aircraft before the stretcher was passed from those on the ground to those in the 'plane with choreographed precision.

Once on board, the medics secured the stretcher as the 'plane started to taxi along the road, gathering speed until it was airborne. Those it left behind dispersing until nothing was left to indicate that the pastoral tranquillity had ever been disturbed.

Napoleon found the nearest seat he could get to Illya and claimed it for himself. The medics now turning their attentions to him as he sat vigil over the Russian. They eventually satisfied themselves that, apart from the split lip and a few minor abrasions, his injuries consisted chiefly of muscle strain and bruising.

They also suggested that the worried agent should get some rest. Napoleon raised all kinds of objections to this and continued to raise them right up to the point when the sedative kicked in.

He awoke in medical. Everything hurt. He was convinced that even his hair hurt. His eyes certainly did and he raised an arm to shield them from the uncompromising lighting so favoured by this branch of the agency. The action alerted a young nurse who came to his bedside. He didn't think he'd seen this one before. He tried a smile. She blushed slightly. He noted this for later investigation.

''Illya?'' he said. The nurse looked over to the next bed, shielded by screens. ''I want to see him'' said Napoleon pressing abused and complaining muscles into getting him out of bed.

''You shouldn't be up yet, you need rest'' protested the young nurse as Napoleon made his way, stiff limbed, towards Illya. Napoleon was not an easy mountain to move, so she abandoned the attempt and left to get reinforcements.

Napoleon pushed the screens aside. Illya was laying pale against the sheets. ''You awake?'' he asked.

Weary blue eyes opened ''No'' said Illya.

''Can only mean you're dreaming about me'' said Napoleon.

Even half dead the Russian managed to sound irritated ''What do you want Napoleon?'' he asked.

''What happened?'' asked Napoleon.

''Some new truth serum'' said Illya, obviously struggling now with retaining his conscious state.

''Well it certainly got you talking'' said Napoleon.

''And now I would like to sleep'' said Illya, his eyes drifting shut.

Napoleon smiled down on the exhausted and mistreated Russian ''Sleep then'' he said gently.

''Mr Solo, you should be in bed'' said a voice behind him. Napoleon turned to face the doctor. She was new to him too. He tried a smile from the same stable as the one he had tried on the nurse. This one didn't seem to be as effective. Napoleon also noted this, sometimes a challenge was more entertaining and he suspected there would be lots of recuperative leave in his immediate future.

''Always happy to oblige a lady'' he said, and the gleam in his eye had an eminently satisfying effect on the lady's level of comfort. He crawled back into the bed, his muscles were almost weeping with relief.

''How is Illya?'' he asked, as he sank back on the pillows.

''Mr Kuryakin has been exposed to some kind of scopolamine derived substance'' she said, unconsciously tucking Napoleon into bed.

''What's that going to do to him?'' asked Napoleon. It was better to ask the medics, getting it out of Illya would be an uphill struggle.

''He would have originally been disorientated, unable to form coherent thoughts or memories. It's unlikely that he remembers much from the time of the exposure until we were able to treat him'' she said ''I doubt he'll ever be able to tell you what happened to him, what he knows is what we have told him.''

Napoleon's interest was piqued by her quaint use of the word 'exposure'. He had some idea of the methods used by THRUSH when they needed an unwilling guinea pig for their experimentation. 'Exposure' was not the word he would have picked for the mind games they must have played with the Russian. Sometimes it was better when they just wanted to torture and kill you, but it did explain why Napoleon had found him in one piece. You didn't risk killing the lab rats until the experiment was over.

It didn't however explain why they hadn't killed him. ''Doctor, can you test for that stuff?'' he asked.

''Possibly'' she said ''it would depend on how long ago the subject was exposed to it.''

''Test me'' he said grimly.

She looked at him quizzically for a second, then realised he meant it. ''Nurse'' she called ''get me a needle, I want to take some blood.''

The nurse returned with a hypodermic and the doctor drew off some of Napoleon's blood. Then she left with her prize, headed for the labs.

Napoleon sat looking at Illya in the next bed. ''What did they do to us my friend?'' he asked the unconscious Russian.

If Illya had an answer it was known only to himself. Napoleon settled back in his own bed, more drained than he would have admitted, closing his eyes and allowing himself to drift into sleep.

When he awoke his first thought was for Illya. He struggled to sit up and turned towards the Russian's bed. The Russian wasn't in it. Napoleon felt a sudden sense of panic until he realised that the bed was still made, and somewhat rumpled. Wherever the Russian was, he couldn't have been gone long and was probably coming back. The panic subsided.

''Awake then?'' asked a voice from the doorway.

Napoleon turned his attention away from the bed ''Why can't you stay where I leave you?'' enquired Napoleon, this was the second time the Russian had pulled this stunt and it was wearing thin.

Illya was in a wheelchair being pushed by the young nurse. She seemed very pleased with the arrangement. She pushed Illya to the bed and then helped him transfer into it. She seemed more than happy with this aspect of her duties too. Napoleon watched the performance patiently knowing that it was probably entirely wasted on the Russian, whereas he would be very receptive to a spot of general nursing just now. The young nurse, alas, disappeared with the wheelchair. Napoleon's gaze followed her out of the room.

''Do you think Florence Nightingale ever looked like that?'' Napoleon said absently.

''Mmm what?'' said Illya. Then realising belatedly that Napoleon had been talking about the nurse ''I don't know, probably more of a crinoline.''

''I wasn't talking about her uniform'' said Napoleon. But the remark was coherently and reassuringly Russian.

Napoleon's disappointment was somewhat assuaged by the reappearance of the lady doctor. ''I've checked your blood Mr Solo'' she said.

''And?'' said Napoleon. It seemed evident that Illya was also taking a certain scientific interest in the answer to this question.

''You have certainly been exposed to something. Sometime after Mr Kuryakin I would think, possibly when you say the THRUSH heavies caught up with you, the timing would be about right. I can't say for sure, but my guess would be something derived from the same source as the substance to which Mr Kuryakin was exposed.''

''But Illya was a wreck'' said Napoleon, heedless of the Russian's finer feelings ''I was hardly affected.''

''From what I understand of the report, you carried your partner for the better part of ten miles, operating on very little sleep and even less food. When you were finally sedated, you slept solidly for over twenty-four hours, no one could wake you. Not for the transfer of planes, nor for the transfer to this facility. It may not have affected you as it did Mr Kuryakin, I doubt very much that it was intended to, but you were affected'' said the doctor primly, then she added ''I think THRUSH let you run just to see how far you would get.''

The sound of Illya leaning back on his bed took Napoleon's attention. The Russian looked a lot better, but he was obviously far from well. The doctor moved over to give the matter a more professional assessment. ''I'm alright'' said Illya weakly ''I'm just tired.'' Then turning to Napoleon ''You carried me?''

''You couldn't stand up'' said Napoleon ''and I couldn't leave you there. You know you still haven't said sorry for ruining my suit, which I think lacks a certain gratitude.''

''Did I say anything?'' said Illya ''Did I tell them...?'' his voice trailed off, but his eyes were not quite shut.

''As usual partner, you said a great deal and made very little sense. THRUSH is obviously not as willing to put up with that as I am'' said Napoleon, but his voice was tender and his eloquent brown eyes told the Russian what he needed to know.

''I do not talk too much'' said Illya sleepily ''but I have a partner who does'' and then, as those same soft brown eyes watched, the much misused Russian was lost to sleep.

END


End file.
